


16:22

by zoeyclarke



Category: Chicago Med
Genre: Because fuck canon, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, spoilers for 5x01 i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 17:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20800562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoeyclarke/pseuds/zoeyclarke
Summary: maybe she didn't deserve it, but she sure as hell earned it.(a rewrite of the scene in which dr. ava bekker deserved better)





	16:22

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS FOR 5x01!
> 
> anyway ugh i'm so mad. i wrote this as my almost immediate reaction to watching that scene. i just... no. these two were my favorites and now they're both gone. not sure if i'm gonna keep watching the show but... yeah. i wanted to try a different take on this scene (which i only saw once before angrily typing this out, so the details are already fuzzy in my mind - forgive me if i got some stuff wrong). i needed a universe where she doesn't get such a... violent end. fuck that. but i hope you like it! thanks for reading.

The scalpel felt cool as she curled her fingers over it, metal pressing into flesh. It was a small, clean dagger, sanitized and neat, and it could do the job as nimbly as her fingers performed in a difficult surgery. Ask for the scalpel, make the cut, blood welling, dig in.

His fingers were quite nimble, too; she remembered. Watching him during surgeries, leaning over the patient, across from him, centimeters of space. Thin, hot air that could combust from the tension between them. Watching him work was so fucking hot. And when the situation was dire, he never strayed for a second - brows furrowed, eyes sharp sapphire shards as he shouted out directions. 

She loved when he would watch her work. She could feel when his gaze was on her bloody gloved hands. It was a very physical feeling, so physical that it had its own presence in the room with them. Their connection was like its own being, and that togetherness, unfortunately, tended to separate itself from her a lot.

His fingers worked wonders in other ways. When he would press her against the wall, those few months ago, his fingertips would explore all over her. He managed to examine every last inch of her even before his scrubs were pooled at his feet and her shirt was tossed aside. And every time, every time without fail, he’d bring her lips to meet his the very second she reached her limit, and her moans would drain into his mouth as they intertwined, flushed skin and sweat, gasping for that sweet, sickly oxygen only found in this hospital.

Now, she slowly turned from the table, squeezing the scalpel in her fist and methodically rubbing circles on the blade with her thumb. Connor was right there within her reach once more, in the same room and breathing her same air. He was dressed in memories: the black scrubs she’d ripped off, his name in the white stitching she’d traced with her fingertips, the scruffy beard that scraped her skin, and the eyes - his eyes were foreign to her now. They regarded her as a stranger, and in all fairness she felt like a stranger in her own body. Had she ever even touched a scalpel without gloves on? Had she ever even looked at Connor and thought about stabbing him?

Ava walked closer to him. The scalpel was gripping her with a strong force, reminding her of its unavoidable existence, pressing into the soft skin of her palm. Then she stopped. Squeezed her eyes shut. Thought of when they used to fuck in his car, in a moment when minutes before he could barely keep his eyes off her as they peeled their scarlet soaked gloves off and discarded their used scrubs. When minutes before, he could hardly resist from tearing off her cap and unraveling her hair and letting it slide through those nimble fingers of his like sand.

She really did think about stabbing him. It would be a swift motion, and an action against all her doctoral instincts screaming for her to do no harm to someone else. What was she here for, if not to help but to hinder? She’d done enough meddling where she shouldn’t have. She’d done enough harm, more than her overwhelmed instincts could handle.

She opened her eyes and sighed. The silence hung all around them, a weighted blanket suspended just above their heads that threatened to fall and suffocate. She flexed her fingers, and was again reminded of what she held there. The weapon - no, the tool - was slick with her own sweat. With every second of hesitation that clicked by, a fresh chill shuddered down her spine. If she still had a spine. She wasn’t so sure anymore.

“Ava,” he said. His voice was calm, suddenly, and her name drifted through his gritted teeth, just a low murmur, barely anything at all. And then his eyes flicked downward, flashing to her closed hand, then back up to her face. He knew what she held there. The power she held there was pulsing up her arm, gathering liquid fire in her blood and solid strength in her muscles. Under it, her bones were brittle. But that didn’t matter.

“I did do it,” she said. She thought of when they first met, that handshake, and what she thought of him then. The way he commanded himself, the way he commanded others. The way he’d swept her up in a way so unfamiliar. Swept her up right into the dustpan, now poised over the trash bin. The weapon loosened in its sea of saltwater that might as well be tears. Her fingers were nimble but now they were crying.

His body was solid steel now, and she knew it. He used to flood her with himself, inside and outside, completely smothered and utterly obliterated in that beautiful dark room. He was so impenetrable now, though. She imagined the scalpel would simply bounce right off his stainless steel chest and barely rattle his wrought-iron bones. And, with that, he spoke her name again - maybe a whisper of something between the two syllables. “Ava...”

She didn’t wait. “But you knew that already.” She moved a little closer, just a tiny bit. Just close enough to feel his life puffing out his mouth over and over. She massaged the scalpel and thought a moment. She thought about dragging it over her throat, a jagged red line. If she did it, maybe - maybe the wound would continue past her own skin, reaching out and beckoning him. Then she found his eyes again, hard as diamonds, and she gave up searching for his misplaced adoration for her. If she had purposely lost it by what she did, why try to find it again?

He inclined his head ever so slightly, and she actually drew up the abstract thought that he might kiss her. Instead, words filled their space yet again, directional and commanding as always.

“Ava, you’re going to go to prison.” As if she were his patient, or the mother of a sick child. Crystal clear diction, right to the point, a no-frills explanation. She couldn’t help but appreciate the clarity.

She unfolded her clasped, nimble fingers, and let the scalpel fall. He touched her right as it hit the ground, and she nodded. “I know.” Maybe it was just; after all, she allowed him to become her sun, and that solar system was devoured by a black hole.

As they walked out of the room, his hand gripping the small of her back in a move that read no escape, she thought about the gorgeous marks he used to leave on her neck, like smudges of graphite, and next she imagined herself as the eraser. 

She thought about the incredible work his fingers used to do on her. Surgeons have a way with that, she supposed. Ava squeezed her eyes shut again. It was a nice thing to think about. It kept her mind idle.


End file.
